Backstroke

Early bus, top deck,
with the boys in parkas and trainers,
trunks wrapped in towel tubes, like torpedoes,
to the Baths.

Diving,
top-board bombing,
playing dead-duck,
ducking.

In the showers,
towel-flicks,
naked shrieks
echo round the lockers  -

echoes

he still hears,
as he drives to an evening swim,
and lays down lengths
in a lazy rhythm of to and fro,
a hypnotist's slow-motion watch and chain.

Alone in the changing rooms,
soap and shampoo,
grown-up clothes, leather shoes,

mirrors.

Stephen Payne

If you've any comments on this poem, Stephen Payne would be pleased to hear from you.